"Fraeulein, forgive me; my words were not meant to be sharp. It was my
pain that spoke. You torture me and cause me to torture myself," said
Max. "To keep a constant curb on one's ardent longing is exhausting. It
takes the heart out of a man. At times you seem to forget that my
silence is my great grief, not my fault. Ah, Fraeulein! you cannot
understand my longing and my struggle."
"I do understand," she answered plaintively, slipping her hand into his,
"and unless certain recent happenings have the result I hope for, you,
too, will understand, more clearly than you now do, within a very
short time."
She covered her face with her hands. Her words mystified Max, and he was
on the point of asking her to explain. He loved and pitied her, and
would have put his arm around her waist to comfort her, but she sprang
to her feet, exclaiming:--
"No, no, Little Max, let us save all that for our farewell. You will not
have long to wait."
Wisdom returned to Max, and he knew that she was right in helping him to
resist the temptation that he had so valiantly struggled against since
leaving Basel.
All that I had really hoped for in Styria, all our fair dreams upon the
castle walls of Hapsburg, had come to pass. Max had, beyond doubt, won
the heart of Mary of Burgundy, but that would avail nothing unless by
some good chance conditions should so change that Mary would be able to
choose for herself. In such case, ambition would cut no figure in her
choice.
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